


Complementary, Contemporary

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Domestics, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Smut, dash of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9439289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: It's just dinner with Gene, Sam probably shouldn't overreact.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/gifts).



> **Loz** prompted me with _candlelight_ , and this is the story that ended up happening.
> 
> Thanks to **talkingtothesky** for the beta!

There's a knock at the door – seven o'clock, sharp – and Sam's startled to realise he'd been pacing about his flat nervously, close to worrying holes in the shoddy carpeting. He pats down the front of his shirt, takes a deep breath, tells himself not to act so bloody ridiculous because it's only _dinner with Gene_ and it's happened a hundred or so times before, there's no definable reason for him to overreact.

So he reaches for the latch like it's no big deal, only knowing that if he doesn't hurry up there's always the possibility that Gene could grow impatient enough to kick the door in; but there's still a storm of butterflies in his stomach and that right there is _beyond undignified_ , Gene can never know.

He's shocked, mouth dropping open, at the sight that greets him on the side of the other door. 

Gene's always been a mix of 'ruggedly good-looking' and 'God you're gorgeous', as well as a perhaps unhealthy dose of 'the faces you make when you throw me up against the wall or the filing cabinet or whatever else flat, hard surface is handy, make me want to get down on my knees for you', and he probably shouldn't have been angry and sad and more than half-drunk when he finally admitted that desire to Gene; but he choked through the shock of it as Gene stared at him, judging him, giving a very final sharp nod as he gave Sam's shoulder a gentle-seeming shove and agreed to take him up on the offer (Sam would end up choking around some other things, too). It wasn't a joke, it was Gene being absolutely sincere, and suddenly Sam was waking to a whole new world, all over again.

But the thing was, he'd always been more fond of Gene than he should have been, especially when he really _shouldn't_ have been, and what had developed between them was at first a bit come and go, catch and be caught, with Sam feeling deeper things than he'd allowed himself to in a very long time. The truth of the matter may have shocked them both, but Sam really did understand when it was best not to say anything at all. And anyhow, if he wanted to make the best of it while it lasted, who could that hurt?

Now Gene's standing in the dim of the hall wearing the sort of nice suit he'd only consider putting on for something very, very important (like an appearance at court, and the list ends right there, because as much as Sam knows about Gene, if he isn't at work, or at the pub, there's only a very short list of places where Gene's likely to show up). So, never, _ever_ would he wear that sort of suit to a meal at Sam's, though the look of bored expectation on his face and the bottle of wine he's got tucked under one arm makes for an oddly complementary pair, Gene being a man of his own specific extremes.

Sam hadn't expected anything so flashy, so he continues to stand there in his shock, and as the look of quaint bemusement grows on Gene's face, Sam's surely wearing one of the stupidest looks ever, but he can't find it in himself to care. Gazing at Gene in wonder, he's made aware of his own not-quite-sorry state – he'd been cooking, the sleeves of his shirt are still rolled up, and the whole flat smells faintly of cardamom and cinnamon and a variety of other spices, and Sam twinges with something akin to embarrassed regret, feeling somewhat under-dressed. He starts to fix his shirt, one sleeve at a time, and Gene's lips curve up into a proper grin and Sam forces what he hopes is a smile, in return. Gene hates wine, and he also hates wearing nice suits, because the matters that end up proceeding never end up being _nice_. But here he is, in the flesh, and this one, _God_ , it's nice. Sam's got to be missing out on something, the sort of thing that Gene would have considered to be painfully obvious (that still happens more than Sam would like, but he still does manage to surprise Gene too, mostly when he doesn't try): because that's just how he is with Gene, isn't it, a little slow on the uptake, sometimes, and never, _ever_ able to see the forest for the trees. It had even been Gene's suggestion that Sam do the cooking so they wouldn't have to waste their dosh on food that couldn't compare to anything that Sam could whip up; oh, and just in case Sam felt like acting like a lunatic, well, only Gene would have to suffer the episode, what them being in on their own. And then, as if the indirect mention hadn't hammered that last nail in hard enough, Gene had added: 'Anyhow, you still owe me for that night in Rusholme.'

'Yeah,' Sam had replied, fondly enough, because it was a well-worn argument, comfortable like a broken in pair of shoes, or his jacket, or whenever Gene touched him gently and Sam's heart lurched just that other side of painful as it skipped a beat. 'It's not like I haven't paid you back for that a dozen times already.'

But none of that really matters, not now, does it? Not when Gene is right in front of him, right on time, with a bottle of wine that Sam knows, at a glance, couldn't have been cheap. The suit's one that's slightly better than what he'd wear to work, and God, he looks good in it – really good, beyond good, absolutely-fucking-stunning; so good in fact, Sam's already looking forward to getting him out of it.

Gene slides the bottle of wine out from under his arm, holding it by the neck as his eyes narrow a fraction. 'I do think the impossible has happened, Tyler – the world is coming to an end.'

Sam finishes with one sleeve and moves to the other, squinting at Gene like he's not quite real. 'What do you mean?'

'You're speechless,' he replies with an air of smugness, and Sam rolls his eyes and gives a little shake of his head as he gets the second sleeve sorted. 'What? I quite like it, that's all. Thought it merited special attention.'

'Don't get used to it, I won't let it happen again.'

'Might just, Sammy-boy,' and Gene rocks back on his heels, Sam still with the inkling that he's missing something. 'Well? 'Are you going to ask me in already, or have you dumped all our plans for the night and decided to leave me in the hall?'

Oh – oh, it was that obvious, right in his face. 'No, no, please come in.' And Sam goes from shaking his head to nodding, waving Gene inwards, stamping down on a rush of sudden giddiness as he begins to step to the side, making way for Gene's entrance.

Only Gene moves suddenly, the way he does, sometimes, like a cat or an avalanche, pushing the bottle forwards so Sam's left with no choice but to take it, otherwise it would fall. Gene catches the door with one foot and closes it with a firm kick aimed backwards, and suddenly, oh, his hand is warm where it curves about the back of Sam's neck, firm but relaxed and so gentle the right word would be cradled. The abrupt nearness is a bit intoxicating, the way it always is, but Sam likes it, craves it, might even need it, no wonder he always kept coming back for more. No, the world isn't ending, but it does slow to a crawl whenever Gene is this close to him, and Sam closes his eyes, knowing it's something to be savoured.

All that's missing is appropriate candlelight, and romantic mood music, and even if they end up arguing about how Sam's right and Gene's wrong about the Thompson case, it would be a classic eat-in date night and they don't _date_ , that's just not something they do, not in those words. They haven't been just _two mates_ for a long while now, have they, and that's Sam's over-thinking things the way he always does, but _friends_ doesn't quite cover it, and _partners_ , well, that's closer, and how could Sam have been so thick? Maybe Gene's as aware of what they have already and how they could have so much more, only coming to it in his own time, following his own line of investigation.

Sam opens his eyes. 'Oh.' The smile is real, and so is the one that Gene gives in return, smug as all get-out, like he's appreciating some complicated handiwork of his own but it's just been Sam with yet another stupid look on his face, still not really sure what he should say.

'Thought you said you wouldn't let it happen again?'

Sam shrugs. Gene, though, continues. 'You look fine, Sam, don't go and get those frilly knickers of yours in a twist.' And then there's kissing, the no fuss, no muss sort of kisses that leaves Sam breathless, and aching, and wanting more, because they're over and done with all too bloody soon and they were just getting _good_.

'So,' and Gene licks his lips, drawing back, 'a little birdy informed me that there'd be food.'

A home-cooked curry, yes, and the last of Sam's anxieties rush out in a burst of startled laughter. 'It's on the heat still, I've just got to plate it up.' He lifts the bottle up, quirks an eyebrow at it as he smiles, but he means it sincerely. 'This'll actually go pretty well with the rogan josh, I don't know how you managed it. We're doing this because you wanted to save money, right?'

'Guilty as charged.' And that's Gene being himself, as subtle as a herd of stampeding buffalo, and Sam pushes the bottle back towards him with a fond little shake of his head as the other man smirks knowingly. 'Nelson owed me one, thought it was time enough he paid out.'

'Well...' Their hands brush together, and Sam looks up, smile widening. 'You know where the glasses are, then. I'll get the food.'

–  
–

Gene busies himself eating, making small but appreciative noises as he bites, and chews, and swallows. He's either really enjoying himself, or he's just pulling on Sam's chain, though what would he get from that? Surprisingly enough, he's more transparent than Sam at first had assumed, but only because Sam's mostly adjusted to his mannerisms, grown too accustomed to all of his many quirks (honestly, at first, he couldn't stand being around the other man when he was eating, or drinking, or just standing around doing nothing at all, more likely to stare at him in startled shock than any sort of wonder). From drinking too much to smoking like a chimney, to saying one thing and meaning another, to those times when he falls back on being a brute who takes short-cuts to get the job done, to those other times he surprises Sam by doing everything painstakingly _by-the-book_. It's that last thing he seems to do more often than not, and that gives Sam hope. When he focuses on the big picture instead of the minutiae, it isn't all that bad, and they work better together than they do apart, the seeds of it were there from the very start. And anyhow, Sam's grown as well, is more aware of his own flaws than he'd ever been before, and who cares who's right, sometimes, both of them are wrong.

Sam's sitting across from him, a little less anxiously anticipatory, beaming with quiet pride. The meal is going as perfectly as he could have hoped, his opportunities to cook nice meals for people having narrowed drastically since his move to the 70s; there was Maya, before, and his mum of course, and he only got to cook for Annie a few times before they gave up on dating and decided it was better off as just friends.

While Gene was getting the glasses, Sam had decided to do something about finalising the mood, and had rummaged about in the kitchenette and found a few candles, misshapen old things that had seen better days. He'd fussed about finding the perfect place for them to sit, of course, and when Gene had chuckled at him and called him a bloody big girl's blouse, there was only the faintest hint of exasperation in his voice. Now that the overhead has been switched off and it's just the standing lamp and the candles lighting the place, it's dim but not too dark, lending a very specific sort of warmth that isn't there when all the lights are on.

Gene had removed his suit-jacket and hung it off the back of his chair before he went off to sort out the glasses; the first candle Sam had placed is the one that's now sat between them, stubby and fat. He doesn't remember buying it, it's one more thing that must have come with the flat, the way it had been with so many of his things, and now there's thick beads of wax rolling down the sides, catching on the tea plate he'd sat it on for balance. It's set halfway between them on the small, cluttered tabletop, and the flame flickering atop the wick sets the shadows between them to dancing about. It's all very cramped, and Sam knows he needs a bigger table... but he also needs a bigger bed, and he also needs a much better flat. He should stop just thinking about these things and do something, make them happen, but he's always been able to make excuses. At first, he was fighting to wake back up, fighting for the sake of _fighting_ , because none of this was even real and isn't that a joke, he'd never been able to convince himself that this wasn't real. But now... Well, for better or for worse, this is it.

He's startled from his thoughts as Gene shifts about in his seat, and Sam refocuses all his attention on his guest. Gene's lashes lowering as he takes a moment after he's swallowed, quietly showing his appreciation as he savours that last bite.

And Sam watches, some more, as the candlelight continues its dance, catching off the wine in Gene's glass, setting off the highlights in his hair, the curve of his lips. Sam aches, suddenly, deeply, to touch him, kiss him, to convince him what a stunningly gorgeous man he is, though Sam's not bad on the eyes, Gene's said so himself. But he takes hold of his own glass instead as the words all stick in his throat and he lifts his head back up to meet Gene's own now watching gaze. Gene relishes some things so enthusiastically, there's nothing he tries to hide; like eating good food, or fucking Sam so hard he forgets to breathe, forgets his own name.

'What, is something wrong?' Gene asks, taking a moment between mouthfuls. He searches Sam's face thoughtfully, as though Sam was a particularly troublesome puzzle piece and Gene was unsure of where to stick him. Sam shakes his head, then hesitates, because maybe he should have nodded – but it's not a bad thing, however he wants to look at it, and he quickly takes a drink of his wine before setting his glass back down, reaching for his fork.

His cheeks are warmer, and he's going to sound like a sap, or an idiot, but neither of those things should come as any great surprise. 'I like watching you, that's all. You're enjoying yourself.'

Gene pauses, nods briskly, stretching lazily as he reaches for his glass. 'It's a bit hotter than I was expecting, but that's good. Sure, there's half a dozen places close by where we could get it, but yours isn't half bad.' And Sam's ears, burning suddenly, perk up. He knows a compliment when he hears one – this has happened before – with Gene being so fond of giving them indirectly, more often than not delivering them hand in hand with an insult.

'You're welcome. I'm glad you approve.' Gene gives him a look, and Sam shrugs. 'What? I'm not trying to be an arse, don't look at me like that – I'm being completely sincere. I mean, all of this,' and he gestures to the spread between them, 'was for you.'

'Okay, whatever you say, Dorothy.' Gene huffs as he grins, and Sam bites his tongue and doesn't ramble on about how he made sure to make it as authentic as he could, that he first learned the recipe from Maya, but he knows a half dozen variations that are probably all just as good, and he'd love Gene to try them all. There were plenty of other recipes he learned from her, and so many he taught her in return, and Gene's tried a couple of them already, there's so many more. He misses her, even though he's here with Gene, and he knows if he brought her up, now, he'd end up sticking his foot in his mouth. He so often does.

Gene swishes the wine about, takes another drink. 'And the plonk, you were right about that.'

'I hope you're being ironic, you know this isn't cheap wine.'

'Well of course you'd quibble about my choice in vocabulary,' Gene huffs before draining the last from his glass. 'Still, it's a nice choice I made, don't you think? It's a good thing I picked it up.' Sam thinks he can translate that as, I knew you'd like it, and it doesn't have to be in said in as many extra words, he still gets the intent.

'Good thing, yeah,' Sam murmurs, topping off Gene's glass now that it's empty. Their hands brush as Gene picks it back up, another flash of light catching off the curved side, more light illuminating the warmth of Gene's inviting mouth, his eyes. Sam grows warmer as he takes a long drink from his own, the stem seemingly so fragile in his hand. Fragile, like hope, or happiness, but here Sam is – will always be – figuratively having taken both of those things in both of his hands.

He opens his eyes – when had he closed them? – and Gene's looking at him, face steady as stone, just as unreadable, but not so impossibly cold as it could have been, if he'd tried. 'But you're hardly eating,' he says, and it's the truth. 'You didn't put any funny stuff in it, did you?'

Sam chuckles, heat up the back of his neck as he takes another drink to cover the sudden flurry of nerves. 'God, no, nothing like that.' He sets his glass down, chews at his bottom lip in thought. 'I guess I was too caught up in watching you. It doesn't matter what it is, but when you're doing something you enjoy, you've got this... intensity about you. I can't look away.'

Gene bares his teeth, grinning wolfishly. 'I'll have to give you a real show, later on.' He looks a little less self-assured as Sam gets up, grabs his glass up and quickly downs the last of his wine. 'What now?'

Sam grins in return, a certain plan in mind. 'I'm tired of looking, that's all.'

Gene makes his mind up in a flash, giving his plate a small shove away from him. 'Let's see what you've got for us, then.'

'A lot more patience than you probably warrant, which is nothing out of the ordinary. I've been thinking about getting you out of this suit since you first showed up.'

He pauses a moment, thinks, gives a flicker of smug satisfaction as he grins. 'That long then?'

Gene's stood now, and Sam's near enough now to reach for him, to touch him, sliding his hands upwards from chest to shoulder, grabbing hold of him by the collar in order to tug him down, close, closer. He smiles, like he knows just what he's in for, and there's more of those kisses that Sam loves so much, fast and hot and deep.

Gene groans and Sam pushes, and as Gene goes backwards, there's more of those pleased noises, moans muffled in the tangle of their mouths. There's hard plastic buttons for Sam's fingers to trail over, to slip free of their slots, an endless measure of warm, soft skin. There's skin for Sam to kiss, so much skin, Gene's mouth and his cheek, down the arching curve of his neck. There's a nipple for him to pinch, and he can't help but grin as Gene jerks away from him, lower lip jutting out as he rubs at the offended spot, and Sam is not going to call him adorable, there are just some lines he shouldn't cross.

'Sorry,' and he does mean it, though he doesn't sound it. 'Did that sting?'

'It bloody well did – '

Sam's about to have too much fun with this, of that he's absolutely sure. 'Don't worry, you know you can trust me to make it all better.'

Gene's eyes do widen some, wonderment and expectation with just a dash of _I dare you to do just that_. 'Oh,' he says, as Sam gives him a push with his leg, knee pressed flush to his thigh. 'I guess I'll be sitting down then,' and he does, Sam grinning as he follows, leaning low, pushing the shirt down off Gene's shoulder and tucking himself in close, nuzzling at the heat of his throat. He chases after Gene's pulse, chair creaking as he leans back in it, Sam's mouth making its way south. The sweet warmth of it as he mouths at Gene's nipple, how Gene bucks beneath him and grabs hard at the back of his collar, how Sam is holding onto Gene's shirt with both hands (he's not ready to get rid of it entirely).

He lowers one hand, dragging his fingers over hot skin, skimming through the soft patches of hair on Gene's chest, lower down on his belly. He bites hard and Gene gives a choked off little gasp as he actually _wriggles_ , and God, wouldn't he say that was undignified and unmanly, something more suited for Sam. But even that doesn't stop him from yanking hard on Sam's shirt, and Sam feels it go taut across his back, like it could rip at any second. He strokes at the hardness in Gene's dress-slacks with his thumb, swallowed up in the heat radiating out from his body. Sam pulls back, blinking, licking at his lips, stroking his shoulder with one hand, Gene's pulse racing beneath his skin. There's a flush of colour across Gene's chest, darker spots of it on his cheeks, and Sam has to take it all in slowly, enjoying the full effect.

Gene blinks back at him, eyes blown out with desire. 'Sam – '

'Let me, please?'

They can't actually read each others' minds, but sometimes, oh, sometimes it does come close. The candlelight sparks across Gene's face, shadows and curves. Sam follows them with his fingertips, kisses along with them with his lips. He murmurs, 'you bloody soft bastard,' but he tilts his head to let Sam kiss him, mouth pliant and pink. When Sam stops, his eyes are half-focused, and he's half out of breath, a trickle of sweat rolling across the curve of his cheek. He touches his fingers to Sam's face, caresses across his lips. 'Well, I don't see why not... if that's what you really want. I can't always be the one doing all the hard work.'

–  
–

The two candles sat atop the bed-frame cast their warm soft light across the room, highlights in sweat-slick hair as Gene throws his head back, mouth slack as he groans. 'Fuck,' escapes in a low growl, and it's not often that Sam gets him to say something so meaty, so raw, and it would only ever happen if Sam was balls-deep in him, bodies straining, flesh pressed to flesh. 'Come on, Sammy-boy. Need you to stop holding back.'

He's not, really, but he also doesn't want it over too quick. Gene's white-knuckled fingers are fisted into the green covers as Sam draws back, feels it all through him, thrusting back in, hard. He doesn't want to think about how rarely this happens, Gene letting him top, how each time it happens it leads to him him taking the time to re-memorise each step of the way. The way Gene clenches about him, each breathy gasp and lengthy shudder that he gives, because it's all so _perfect_ , but it's also not going to last. Each time Gene growls or groans and says his name, so simply, _Sam_ , or _please_ , or, just as rarely _just like that_.

That Gene would ever want this, from _him_.

Sam shifts his legs to better plant himself in place, threadbare carpeting beneath his feet and Gene's thighs burning hot against his clutching hands. He slides back in and Gene rolls forward with it, Sam leaning himself into it completely, bending himself forward until he feels ready to break. He has to stop and catch his breath, getting his feet beneath him so he can stand, and it's not like he goes round talking about what devious things he and Gene get up to in the privacy of his flat (or Gene's house, or wherever else the need takes them, some of them more risky than others), but no one would ever in a million years believe that he could make his Guv whine with impatience, causing the bed to groan in loud protest as he makes it bounce. Even if he did have people lined up to listen to him as he shared all the perfectly sordid details, which he does not.

' _Sam_.'

The shirt that Sam had convinced Gene to keep on is getting sticky with sweat in some places, especially at the small of his back, deepening to the darkest grey. Sam speeds up, shifts his angle, and Gene curses, loudly, shuddering, pressing his face into the covers as he thrusts backwards. Sam would laugh, if he could, but he's too busy now focusing on what he's doing, giving it his all as he makes this an experience worth remembering. Because he's never quite managed to fuck Gene breathless, or nameless, and each time this happens, he has to try.

'Touch yourself,' he says, surprising himself at the words. Gene huffs and he shifts one arm, hand vanishing beneath his body. He doesn't immediately begin to stroke himself, as if he didn't really mind making this last. ' _Gene_. Touch yourself.'

'Ballsy bastard,' Gene mutters with a groan, and Sam grins broadly, eyes slipping shut but with the sight of Gene's arm moving as he begins to stroke himself. 'Sure you... get off... on thinking you can tell me... what to do.'

'Oh, God, never,' Sam chuckles. The sweat is rolling down him, and he pistons hard into Gene's trembling body, tightening about him. 'Tell me if you're close.' The words are running together; _Sam_ surely knows that he's close, but if he can't accomplish anything else, he would like Gene to come first.

'Yes,' is the mumbled reply. 'Yes, Sam, yes.' It doesn't answer Sam in any way that makes sense, but Sam deciphers it the only way he knows how. Gene mumbles a few more things, face pressed into the covers, moving one arm to push himself up, and back, right into Sam's thrust. 'Sam, _Sam_.' But he can't say it, the way Sam can, can't tell him that he's coming even as Sam feels it happening, rocking back into him; he picks up the pace and thrusts a few more times, frantically fast now, nails digging into Gene's thighs, desperately wishing he was close enough to kiss Gene, anywhere would be good.

Gene collapses forward onto the cot, groaning loudly as he does, turning his head to the side as he begins to complain about the right mess that Sam has made of him. 'Scoot over,' he gasps, close to breathless himself. His knees are like old rubber, ready to snap and crack. 'I think my legs are about to give out.'

His response is affectionate grousing as he rolls onto his back, and crawls into the bed, onto Gene. Now that he's close enough to kiss Gene, he does, and Gene moans into it, opening his mouth wide and letting Sam in.

–  
–

The darkness is blue-grey, cool and dim and steady where the candlelight had been orange-red, warm and bright and flickering. Across from the bed, where the both of them are making the most of Sam's cramped bed-space, barely visible in the gloom, sits the television which hasn't spontaneously turned on by itself in more than a year. Any second now, Sam is going to wake up, because this is all still a dream, and if he's learned anything in life (in this one, or the last) a period of good luck this lengthy is definitely too good to be true.

He breathes in sharply, quickly blows it out. He knows that's a bad line of thinking for him to fall into, and he very desperately needs to avoid letting himself fall. It's always seemed realer here than the real world had ever been, because it's always made him _feel_. Maybe he's not always known what to make of that. He's definitely not always known what to make of Gene.

But now, in his cramped bed, in his hideously tacky flat, warm and sated and draped across that same not-always-completely-brutish DCI, he feels more hopeful than he has in decades, and Sam is... happy. Close enough to completely content. Glad he's put the effort into making all of this work, that he's not the only one. Certain he's made the right choice.

And no, he doesn't just mean the part of it that means he gets to sleep with Gene.

They'd cleaned up, for the most part, but Gene was trying to hide his sudden exhaustion, and while he did what he always did and said one thing – 'don't look so smug, it wasn't that good a shag' – Sam knew to believe otherwise, because Gene oh so gingerly dropped down onto the tidied bed and curled onto his side, telling Sam to hurry up already, he was getting cold. Sam joined him a few minutes later, after making sure the candles were blown out and that the door was locked (fat chance said lock would keep anyone out if they really wanted in, Gene himself had proven that too many times before). Now, a few minutes later than even that, Gene is sleeping, breathing softly, one arm heavy where it's curled over Sam's waist, hand resting against his thigh. Sam would much rather be sleeping, the way that Gene is sleeping, something he accomplishes effortlessly where Sam, instead, over-thinking everything, sure it's one more night he'll be awake until dawn.

'Stop thinking so much, and get some kip.'

Well, Sam's been wrong about this before, the way he's been wrong about Gene being drunk. He sighs, snuggling in as Gene drags him closer, presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.

'What, were my thoughts so loud they woke you up?'

'Something like that, yes. Now, dare I repeat myself: get some kip.'

'Yes, Guv.'

'And while you're at it, why don't you get a bigger bed? Actually, scratch that,' he quickly amends. 'What you really need to do is get a better flat.'

'Been thinking about that, actually. How did you know?'

'Cause I can read your mind, and do you honestly never shut up?'

Sam chuckles, twisting some to kiss the closest part of Gene his mouth can reach (which happens to be his cheek). Gene slides a hand up across Sam's stomach, then down his leg to his knee – where he gives it a squeeze, before letting his hand trail upwards yet again, fingers heavy and hot. 'No, but you really should be used to that by now.' And he can see it happening, so easily, he really can. Getting a new place to live and making it his home, the way he's made all of this his home. Maybe he could even end up asking Gene to split the cost of it with him – they could make it work, like they were only just wanting to save money, Gene being divorced and Sam the eternal bachelor – but he doesn't know if he's ready for that, if either of them are ready.

He knows Gene doesn't mind being there for the night, or the morning after, but Sam's never actually considered asking him to _stay_.

He needs to do something different, start actively planning on it lasting instead of passively making the best of a temporary thing. And since it seems like it's something Gene's more than just marginally interested in as well, who could that hurt?

'You're right, but let's not let that go to your head.' It's the sort of thing that might have stung, _should_ have stung, like peeling off a plaster bit by bit instead of all in one go. But there's softness and sincerity, Gene's defences having gone down, showing the man beneath all the bluster and bravado. Here, in the cool blue darkness of Sam's flat, where no one else can see.

'How about we get some kip then, eh?' Sam's throat has gone tight. 'I need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning so you can shag me through the mattress. You know,' and he twists about to kiss Gene again, stays like that, face to face instead of spooned back to front, 'since it looks like I'll be moving out of here soon. We've got to make the best of the time we've got left.'

Gene chuckles, the outline of his grin just barely visible, stroking his hand down to rest at Sam's hip. 'For old time's sake?'

'Yeah, for old time's sake.'

The arm about him tightens, just right, Gene saying 'Let's do'. He's got nothing more to say, but neither does Sam, and as he tucks his head down, he lets the rise and fall of Gene's chest – the eventual soft but steady rumble of his snores – lull him to sleep.


End file.
